He heard light footsteps, and felt a strong arm embracing his own trembling frame. The preacher had come to kneel where he knelt, and to pray, not for him, but with him.
"I cannot," said Bart Toyner, "I can't, I can't."
"Why not?" whispered the preacher.
"Because I know I shall take to drink again."
"Which do you love best, God or the drink?" asked the preacher. "If you love the drink best, you ought not to be here; if you love God best, you need have no fear."
"God." The word embodied the great new idea which had entered Toyner's soul, the idea of the love that had power to help him.
"I want to get hold of God," he said; "but it isn't any use, for I shall just go and get drunk again."
"Dear, dear fellow," said the young preacher, his arm drawing closer round Bart, "He is able and willing to keep you; all you have to do is to take Him for your Master, and He will come to you and make a new man of you. He will take the drink crave away. He knows as well as you do that you can't fight it."
"I don't believe it," said Toyner.
Then the young preacher turned his beautiful face toward the blue above the trees and whispered a prayer: "Open the eyes of our souls that we may see Thee, and then we shall know that Thou canst not lie. Thy honour is pledged to give Thy servants all they need, and this man needs to have the craving for drink taken out of his body. He has come at Thy call, willing to be Thy slave; Thou canst not go back on Thy promises. We know Thou hast accepted him, because he has come to Thee. We know that Thou wilt give him what he needs,"—so the short sentences of the whispered prayer went on in quick transition from entreaty to thanksgiving for a gift received. Suddenly, before the conclusion had come, Bart stood up upon his feet.